


Rude Notes

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Branding, Crowley Whump, Gen, Mild descriptions of violence, Post-Bastille, Torture, crowley's lot do not send rude notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: “I would like to do this a dozen times over.” Beelzebub grabbed the poker and stirred the coals, unbothered by the flames that licked their hand. “But, unfortunately, Lucifer will only let us leave one mark. He thinks you can be redeemed. I cannot fathom why, but he likes you.”They pulled out the metal rod. Not a poker. A branding iron.“But he did want me to pass on a message. He says next time there’s a pretty angel who needs saving, that you should remember who you belong to.”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Rude Notes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> FBI man watching me Google stuff for this story: uhhhh
> 
> This is for Whiteley Foster’s fic contest for her piece: “You ever wonder why Crowley took a decades long nap after he rescued Aziraphale from the Bastille, and then woke up looking for a way to defend himself against his own people? Because I do.” 
> 
> She had the amazing idea, and when she announced there would be a fic contest, how could I not whip something up? 
> 
> I assumed that Crowley fell asleep after the Bastille/this incident in 1793 and woke up just in time to have that fight with Aziraphale. I know that there’s a deleted scene where Crowley is supposed to be around for the opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but since that didn’t make it to the actual series, I’m ignoring it for the sake of my own plot.

_1793_

Crowley would remember walking into his little flat in London and immediately noticing Hastur and Ligur lurking in the shadows—not by sight but by smell. They carried the scent of an abandoned farmer's market and stagnant water filled with reptile product wherever they went. It was the general stench of Hell, and it tended to linger on demons like dirt when they crawled up through the Earth in their usual dramatic entrances. Crowley always took care to use the stairs to prevent anything from sticking to him. He never liked the decaying aesthetic. 

He would remember setting the key to his front door on the table by the entrance and turning to the demons with a neutral expression. 

“Can I help you?” 

And then he would remember waking up with rope digging into his wrists and shoulders aching, letting him know that his arms had been pinned behind him for some time. 

His instinct was not to panic. He rolled his head, trying to work out some of the cricks in his neck. First, he wanted to assess the damage done to his corporation and besides a throbbing bump on the back of his head and some sore muscles, he seemed to be in good shape. Which was a little comforting. Demons didn’t go easy on each other when they were truly angry. Crowley had lost a fair amount of teeth and had healed his nose many times to know that. 

Second, Crowley needed to know where he was. It was pitch dark, and the odor from his apartment had become stronger. It turned his stomach. Definitely Hell. 

“What did I do this time?” he called out. 

There was no response, and there was no blow to his body, so he assumed he was alone. 

Crowley sat in his chair in silence, trying to think of what Hell could have witnessed. Saving Aziraphale, of course, came to mind, but he had been sure Hell wasn’t watching him. He cut Aziraphale’s gratitude off before anyone could hear. He made sure no one noticed him appear in France or walking through the stained, cobblestone streets. It was his day off, for Satan’s sake. No one should have been checking in on him at all. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Hell pulled him down for their own entertainment. All of 1359 was spent in a damp, musty basement. The walls had moved a few inches inward every month until he couldn't move more than a foot in either direction. Drenched in sweat and shaking from anxiety, Crowley had shoved Dagon aside to get out when the door finally opened, desperate to breathe in slightly fresher air outside his hole. 

1360 was spent drinking. 

Whether it was a full year or only an hour before the door opened that time, Crowley wouldn’t know. He closed his eyes when white light flooded the dark room. 

“Lord Beelzebub!” he said, trying to keep his voice chipper. “Lovely to see you. I was just about to get those reports—”

“Shut up.”

The door slammed shut. There was suddenly dim, warm light coming from candle sconces lining the walls. It was less assaulting to Crowley’s eyes, but he wanted to be plunged in darkness again. He didn’t like what he saw: a small firepit directly in front of him with a poker sticking out of the unlit coals. 

Beelzebub stood next to it, arms crossed over their chest. He looked from the pit to their tense body. Their face was flushed, and Crowley had witnessed them like this only once before.

"Can I ask what this is about?"

“You know what you did.”

“I don’t think I do.” Crowley kept his voice and face steady. 

“Saving that principality from execution?”

Crowley clenched his jaw and said nothing. While he felt ill, he didn't let it show. Beelzebub stared, their pale eyes piercing him. They could go on like this for all of eternity, neither taking a break to blink. Beelzebub was tough, Crowley knew, but his growing distaste for Hell could drive him to do nearly anything. 

“I wanted to tell you what an absolute waste of space you are,” Beelzebub said. “I could tell you for _centuries_ how absolutely pathetic you are and that if I could, I would drop you into a chamber of holy water with all the demons watching your body disintegrate. _But_ , we couldn’t get that approved by our Lord, and I have other things to do besides tell you how much I think you deserve to rot and fester in our lowest pit. So, Hastur suggested this instead, and Lucifer didn't mind a little exterior damage. You can thank him later when you’ve learned to not be a complete disgrace.”

The coals were lit.

Beelzebub grabbed Crowley's jacket collar and pulled. The fabric ripped through the buttons down to his waist. His shirt was next. Beelzebub’s grimy, broken nails scratched at his bare shoulder as they pulled his clothes away, their blackened, calloused fingers rough against his pink skin. 

“I think you deserve this on every inch of your body, a dozen times over.” They grabbed the poker and stirred the coals, unbothered by the flames that licked their hand. “But, unfortunately, Lucifer will only let us leave one mark. And not on your face. He thinks you can be redeemed. I can't fathom why, but he likes you. Hastur said it might have to do with the revolution you started up there. I just think it's because he thinks you're pretty.” 

Beelzebub pulled out the metal rod. Not a poker. A branding iron. The heart Crowley didn't need began racing, and the lungs that he hardly used tightened. His ribcage was falling apart inside him. 

“But he did want me to pass on a message. He says next time there’s a little angel who needs saving, that you should remember who you belong to.”

Crowley fell forward in his chair, caught only by his restraints. He shook his head as he saw the glowing red and orange cross at the end of the iron. He wasn’t a fighter, he knew. But if he could run. If he could break free of the rope and maybe shift and slither out— 

Crowley saw white when the iron was pressed to his skin. 

The sizzling of his burning flesh was identical to the sounds of crepe batter hitting a hot griddle. Aziraphale had closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky when they heard it. It was “heavenly,” according to him, to be able to take in all the sights and sounds and smells of a perfect meal being made for you.

A small stack of beautiful, pale yellow crepes was sat in front of them. It was topped with strawberries and sugar, and Aziraphale had allowed Crowley to steal a few bites. The sweetness of the sugar and the tartness of the fruit had lingered on his tongue. Crowley could still taste it on his lips when Beelzebub lifted the iron from his pectoral. 

He didn’t dare look down. He didn’t want to see the damage.

Crowley had accidentally set his hair on fire sometime around the mid-14th century. Aziraphale was there to put it out, but the smell stayed in Crowley’s nose for the rest of the day.

He didn’t want to imagine the fine fuzz on his shoulder and the thicker hair on his chest shriveling up and melting away under the iron. 

He felt sick. The memories of fresh crepes and coffee were replaced by bile, spilling out of his mouth and into his lap. 

“Oh no,” Beelzebub said, dipping the iron back into the hot coals. “You’ll need to clean that up before you go back to Earth.”

Crowley’s hair was no longer in its neat updo. It was loose in his face and stuck to his wet cheeks and forehead. A cold sweat had drenched his entire body. Snot and tears ran down his face, adding to the mess. 

Beelzebub pursed their lips and admired their work. They hummed and stirred the coals again. Crowley wanted to crawl out of the room and find a quiet place to rest before making his journey back to his flat. He wanted to curl up in bed and hope that Aziraphale would visit and dote on him for at least a day. He wanted Aziraphale to clean the mangled flesh and bring him cool water to drink and sit by his side and read while he slept. 

“I don’t think I like it there,” Beelzebub said. "Maybe an inch to the right."

They picked up the iron again. The burn was gone without a scar. Crowley released a long, deep sob. 

* * *

Crowley woke up in 1862. 

He expected his chemise and quilt to be covered in a layer of dust; his hair to be long and matted and the burn on his shoulder to be healed. When he laid down, light-headed and shaky, he didn’t intend to sleep for 70 years. He only meant to sleep until the pain was gone (or at least tolerable). But in 1835, he woke up with a raging fever and his entire left arm throbbing. He miracled the infection out of his body, the pus gone and festering wound closed, glanced at his shoulder, and closed his eyes again with resignation. 

But his quilt was clean, his clothes were a brighter white than it had ever been, and, when he ran his fingers through it, realized that his hair was cropped and tangle-free. Furthermore, his flat smelled of pungent flowers and good deeds (which also had a tendency to smell of pungent flowers). Aziraphale must have visited. 

Crowley pulled down his chemise and examined his new mark. His skin was rough and pale where the iron had touched him for the final time. In white scarring, the Leviathan Cross was perfectly branded on him. It didn’t hurt, Crowley thought, as he ran a finger over it, tracing the lines down to the infinity symbol. He supposed he could have been thankful for that. Hell could have easily left him with a reminder of the stinging pain and tender flesh. 

In another room of his flat, a pot and bowl crashed to the floor. Crowley pulled his smock back up and climbed out of bed. He padded down the hall and followed a whispered “bugger” and more banging of kitchen supplies. 

Aziraphale was setting a large pot back onto the stove, next to a kettle. A mixing bowl laid on the floor in the middle of spilled broth, vegetables, and finely chopped meat. He sighed and snapped his fingers, the ingredients going back into their correct places and the bowl safely on the table across the room. There was a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table, sitting pretty in its crystal vase. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale looked up and smiled when he saw Crowley in the doorway. His entire face lit up in a heavenly glow. It eased Crowley’s nerves. 

“Oh, good evening, dear! I didn’t wake you, did I? I had a bit of an accident in here.”

Crowley shook his head. Now that the pot was full and on top of a fire, he could smell the full, warm scent of rabbit stew. His mouth watered, and his stomach whined. 

“I thought I’d make something for you whenever you emerged from that dark hole,” Aziraphale continued. He never understood the appeal of wrapping oneself in darkness and soft blankets to become dead to the world. “And I hope you don’t mind, but I did take care of a few things while you were asleep—mostly your hair, dear boy. It was a dreadful mess and, not to mention, outdated.” 

Crowley looked closely at Aziraphale’s new style. He wore long trousers now with a waistcoat under a long jacket. It was different from the pastel outfit he wore the last time Crowley saw him. Even his hair was different. Instead of the carefully styled curls resting on his forehead, his hair was shorter. Most peculiar was the sideburns he sported. They couldn’t really be called sideburns as they nearly reached his chin. 

“Did I miss a lot?” he asked. 

He raised his hand to feel his own cheeks and jaw. He was clean-shaven and free of the gerbils Aziraphale wore. 

“A bit,” Aziraphale said, eyes going to his boring, brown boots. “There’s trouble in the world, and this country seems to be causing a good portion of it. I’ll explain everything later. For now, let’s focus on making dinner!”

Aziraphale stirred the stew with a new smile that looked forced. Crowley went to his side. 

“I know you’re not a huge fan of carrots, but I did put some in for flavor. I’ll make sure you don’t get any. Oh! And I _must_ tell you about my little project! I’ve finally opened that little shop I had been talking about for years. I was hoping to show you when I initially opened it, but I didn’t hear from you. I assumed you were away on business. I suppose that must have been when you laid down for your little rest. You did give me a fright for a decade, too. I’ll scold you for that later. 

“But my bookshop! You probably won’t find it as interesting as I do, but I would like you to take a peek at it if you have the time. I deal with rare first editions and prophetic books, and—oh, you probably don’t care. I shouldn’t ramble.”

“No! I want to hear all about it, angel.”

Aziraphale glanced at him and turned back to the stew. “I can take you there after we eat. We can have sherry while I show you around. Or I believe I have wine if you’d prefer.”

The two things Crowley wanted the most in the world at that moment was a strong drink and to hear Aziraphale speak for hours about his books (though he suspected that he would have to reassure him time and time again that no, he wasn’t bored of the conversation and yes, he’d love to hear all about what he had read that week). He wanted to return to his usual comforts as soon as possible. He wanted Aziraphale’s nervous rambling to be replaced with his usual confident, well-told stories and to forget about his trip to Hell. He didn’t want his most recent interaction with Aziraphale to have been the cause of his damaged corporation. 

Even with Aziraphale doing nothing more than innocently preparing dinner, Crowley feared it would alert Hell to their resumed… fraternizing. Deep down, it did irk Crowley that Aziraphale could be so careless—even after his warning of “my lot do not send rude notes.” He showed up to his flat, unannounced, and spread his good deeds all over the place until the place reeked of angel. 

But the relief that came from seeing Aziraphale was like a balm. For the time being, he was going to take solace in the company and the stew and the flowers. And then, when he was alone again, he’d come up with his ways to keep him and his angel safe. 

“Let’s do it.” Crowley leaned into the steam of the pot, breathing deeply. “When will it be ready?” 

“Soon, old boy. In the meantime, we can decide on some new clothes for you. I have a tailor if you’d like to see him, but we might have to miracle something up for you before you step out.”

Aziraphale reached out and tugged at the collar of Crowley’s chemise. He was smirking, a teasing joke about to pass his lips. 

But Crowley flinched and took half a step back. Aziraphale’s hand hovered over his shoulder. 

“Everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, whispering it with a soft smile and worried eyes. 

“Fine, angel.” His shoulder twinged. “Nothing to worry about.”


End file.
